Rest In Peace (21 page)

Holding her breath, Lucy walked into the crypt.

She saw the muddy footprints and tufts of clotted hair; the dark, reddish-brown stains smeared along the walls . . .

But she didn't see the figure behind her.

Not till she turned and screamed and stumbled from his arms, trying wildly to fight her way free.

And then she stared up, shocked, into eyes as black and deep as midnight.

“Oh my God,” she choked. “Who are you?”

The dark-haired young man gazed coolly back at her.

“Byron's brother,” he answered. “Who the hell are
you
?”

The Umseen part 3 blood brothers

He'd had to think quickly.

After this last kill he'd been so gorged, so utterly exhausted from frenzy and frustration, he'd been unable to return to his bed. He'd been forced to seek out another hiding place . . . and then he'd crept inside and he'd slept.

Slept far past his normal hour of waking . . .

Slept right through the day . . . into the night . . .

Slept the fathomless sleep of the dead.

He'd never seen the attack coming.

Never awakened fully, even, until the first hot spurt of blood, the first scream of ripping flesh, the whole world exploding in a thick, wet fountain of scarlet and black.

He had no idea which of them had struck the first blow. Or when instinct had taken ahold of him, every primal sense honed for survival, no matter what the pain, no matter what the cost . . .

He did not remember which had been the last to fall . . .

He was only and finally aware of the silence and the peace. The wind upon his face, the snow upon his lips. He was thirsty, yet could not seem to drink. He needed warmth and shelter, yet could not seem to move.

He was in desperate agony, yet could not help himself.

And so he lay there, stunned and weakened, too sick to lick his wounds. Until at last, and like a dream, the sound of quiet footsteps had floated through his mind . . .

He heard them from a distance, moving closer and closer, phantom footsteps of no real concern, no imminent danger. But as he struggled to comprehend them, he realized these footsteps were no dream at all.

They were real, and they were human.

They were coming toward the burial place, dangerously close to where he rested.

And so he'd had to think quickly.

Think quickly and act with haste.

Transform to a shadow? Mist? A guise of the living, a memory of the dead?

Or, in one swift, smooth motion, ready himself to strike again?

But then he paused, consumed by an ache so deep, he had not even realized he moaned.

For now he saw this was no enemy.

Now he realized this was Lucy—his Lucy—approaching him unaware and unsuspecting, steeped in grief and sorrow as he had always known her.

And yet . . . different somehow.

Unsettlingly different, somehow.

He could feel it, as sharply as he could feel the rats cowering around him, their ears twitching in fear, their glowing eyes averted from his own, their teeth stained red from the remnants of his meal and the raw meat of his wound. And he could smell it, too—as surely as he smelled the slow and steady creeping of decay, the lingering despair of so many wasted lives rotting in the graves around him.

No, Lucy was not quite the same as before.

Something had changed since he'd last laid eyes upon her.

Despite her confusion, there was now resolve.

And amid her fear and helplessness burned a new strength—small yet, to be sure, but solid with determination.

How interesting, he thought . . . and how curious.

And also how very delightful. So delightful, it made him smile, despite his anguish.

He couldn't help wondering what had happened—one incident? or many?—to touch her at such a profound level in so short a time.

But no matter.

This newfound strength of Lucy's would only serve to make the Game more interesting. More challenging. More worth the winning.

So he'd narrowed his eyes and waited.

Waited until her footsteps were practically upon him.

Until, in one more second, Lucy would be at the gates of the mausoleum, peering into the shadows of the tomb, stepping across that crumbling threshold between life and death.

Could he take her? As this desperate need for her surged through every vein, filling him with brief and savage power?

Yes . . . yes! Take her now!

But he did not.

He thought quickly instead.

And felt that explosive rush of skin and muscles shifting, features rearranging, as quick as a heartbeat, as natural as breath.

So now he could listen.

Stay close and watch.

And like so many times before, Lucy would never even know.

She hadn't expected the cemetery to look so spooky at this hour of the morning.

Like wandering phantoms, tatters of soft white mist hovered among the graves, and an unnatural quiet smothered the sound of Lucy's footsteps as she made her way to the remote section of the burial grounds. The dead slept deep and undisturbed. Remembered and forgotten alike, they surrounded her on all sides, rotting peacefully to dust.

In the distance, the Wetherly mausoleum came darkly into view, silhouetted against the gloom. As Lucy got nearer, she could see the wrought-iron gates and stone angels that guarded it, and for one unsettling moment, she remembered her dream about Byron and his warning.

An icy shudder worked its way up her spine. Hesitating, she dug her hands into her coat pockets and glanced back over her shoulder.

It was easy to imagine eerie whispers and invisible watchers in a creepy place like this—what had she been thinking anyway, coming here so early?

Giving herself a stern mental shake, she walked over to the front of the tomb. To her surprise, the double gates weren't padlocked as she'd assumed they'd be—in fact, they were standing partway open, one of them creaking rustily as the breeze swung it back and forth.

Heart quickening, Lucy glanced around a second time.

If someone
were
here, they'd be impossible to see, she admitted to herself. Anyone could be hiding close by or far away.

Lucy suppressed another shiver.

Turning in a slow circle, she scanned the graves and headstones, the sepulchres and statues, the trees and shadows and mist. A taste of fear crept into her throat, and she tried to choke it down.

Cautiously, she turned back to the gates.

Taking one in each hand, she eased them open the rest of the way. Cracks had widened along the foundation, and leaves had sifted in over the broken, weathered stones of the floor.

Holding her breath, Lucy walked into the crypt.

She saw the muddy footprints and tufts of clotted hair; the dark, reddish-brown stains smeared along the walls . . .

But she didn't see the figure behind her.

Not till she turned and screamed and stumbled from his arms, trying wildly to fight her way free.

And then she stared up, shocked, into eyes as black and deep as midnight.

“Oh my God,” she choked. “Who are you?”

The dark-haired young man gazed coolly back at her.

“Byron's brother,” he answered. “Who the hell are
you
?”

He could almost have been Byron.

The likeness was so incredible that for one wild moment Lucy actually glanced around at the walls of the mausoleum, as though Byron himself might have stepped from his burial place to stand before her now.

And yet, in one swift moment of scrutiny, she could see that there were differences. Differences not only obvious, but subtle as well—differences she felt certain of but couldn't totally define. Even in that moment of shock, Lucy sensed a sadness even more complicated than Byron's, and a raw sensitivity far beyond any that Byron had ever shown.

She wanted to look away but was transfixed. At first glance, she'd mistaken his eyes for that same midnight black that Byron's had been, but now that she was closer, she could see they were actually a deep amber color, surrounding unusually large black pupils. The effect of this was a wide, unwavering stare that Lucy found both disturbing and fascinating, and as he held her gaze, she noted that his eyes never blinked.

Lucy guessed him to be about the same height and weight as Byron, with the same lean build. His face was less rugged, his cheekbones every bit as prominent, his nose more slender, his features slightly more delicate. He had a high forehead and low curved brows, the same faint beard shadow along his jaws and chin and upper lip. His perfectly shaped mouth looked both sensuous and seductive; his dark straight hair, parting naturally in the middle, fell to just below his ears.

Weary shadows rimmed his eyes. Shadows like bruises, hollowing his cheeks and accentuating the unnatural ghost-white pallor of his skin. And slashing downward from his left ear to the right side of his chin was a long, jagged scar that seemed very deep and very old.

In this quick instant of observation, two bizarre thoughts flashed unexpectedly into Lucy's mind.

That he was perhaps the most beautiful young man she'd ever seen in her entire life. And that he and Byron could have been magically superimposed, like two photographs layered together, forming a familiar, yet brand-new, face.

“Byron . . .”

Without even realizing it, she whispered the name. And though the stranger's gaze had seemed to stop time, Lucy jolted back to awareness, realizing that only seconds had passed.

Realizing he wasn't Byron.

This stranger, this bold trespasser standing before her now, wasn't Byron, could never be Byron. Byron was dead, Byron was out of her life forever, Byron had no brother or she would have known, he would have told her. It was all too much—too much to absorb, too much to process—and suddenly Lucy realized that she was having trouble breathing, that her throat was closing up.

“Who are you?” she heard the young man ask again, but his voice was like a dream, and Lucy couldn't answer.

She felt as if she was suffocating. The air in the mausoleum was thick and heavy, settling over her like folds of velvet, crushing her with a sweetness that was almost sickening.

She knew that sweetness.

She'd smelled it before, that cloying fragrance of allure and elusion, but where was it coming from now? It hadn't been in the mausoleum when she'd gotten here—had it? Could she have somehow not realized?

Turning, she looked down at the dark red stains upon the stones, the clotted hair along the floor. Her mind reeled backward, back to the cave and back to her terror. Dark splatters over the ground . . . dark smears trailing back into the tunnel where light couldn't reach . . .

No, it's not the same, she tried to convince herself. This grisly scene has nothing to do with the other, this was just some stray animal, this can be explained.

But she was starting to feel light-headed and confused. Was this the scent of blood? The aftermath of fear? The lingering odor of death?

“What do you want?”

Had he spoken aloud just now? Had she?

Lucy put her hands to her temples and tried to concentrate. Bring herself back into focus. He was still staring at her, as though he didn't even notice the sweet, sultry odor enclosing them. What was wrong with him? Surely he could smell it—how could he not smell it?

Yet even as she started to mention it to him, the sweetness was already fading. And then a cold, raw breeze snaked through the tomb and the fragrance vanished completely.

But the young man hadn't gone. The young man hadn't disappeared with the blast of the wind; he was still here, gazing down at her with a frown more curious than threatening.

Brother . . .

The word whispered softly through her head. Once again she wondered if one of them had spoken, or if the thought had simply crept unbidden into her subconscious.

“You didn't know?” His lips were moving now. His voice was deep like Byron's . . . soft like Byron's . . .

Brother . . . of course . . . that would explain the resemblance . . .

“You're not Byron's brother,” Lucy said.

Her voice was strong with resolve, with a defiance that surprised her. And then came the anger, fierce and possessive, rushing through her like fire. How dare this stranger encroach into Byron's resting place—how dare he claim Byron's name! Her insides were trembling, grief transformed to protective rage, as though she were facing down something evil that had crept onto hallowed ground.

She lifted her chin, fists clenched tightly at her sides. “Byron doesn't have a brother.”

“Is that what he told you?” the young man countered. He sounded exhausted, too empty for any sort of emotion.

“Yes, he—”

Lucy stopped, suddenly unsure. What had Byron told her? He'd talked about Katherine and his grandmother, about himself when he was a child.

He'd never said anything about having a brother

But then again, he'd never actually said that he didn't.

Flustered, Lucy gazed back at the stranger. He was leaning a little toward one wall, his left arm pressed close to his side. He must be freezing, she thought, and no wonder, dressed as he was in ragged jeans and T-shirt, scruffy denim jacket and dirty old boots. He'd looked pale before, but now he was even whiter. His skin seemed paperlike, almost translucent, and for the first time she noticed the slight trembling of his hands.